Two Wars
by NinjaQuail
Summary: This is Red Alert 2 on both fronts. Follow several characters, Soviet and Allied, as the war comes to conclusion.
1. Default Chapter

Lieutenant David Hyrin looked around the hold of the Nighthawk transport his team was in. They were en route to a Soviet base in Central America. It wasn't the first combat mission he'd had, not by far, but intel didn't look too good. David was a SEAL, the best the navy has, but that can't stop a 50,000 volt charge from killing him. The base was ringed with tesla coils, with tesla troops to charge them if power was ever shut. Major McKinnon, the team commander, had the SEALs, a few Grizzly tanks, GIs, and whatever POWs were at the site at his disposal.  
  
It seemed fairly standard, actually. Too standard for a SEAL, conventional forces could handle this op. Why were they here? Instead of Texas, or Colorado, somewhere on the front? David didn't get much time for speculation. The Nighthawk chopper landed and the team filed out. They were on a high bluff that commanded a good view of the area. The base was south, and it did seem heavily guarded. Anywhere not under the protection of a tesla coil was squared off by concrete walls. In the rear of the base, however, a small opening lead to a group of power reactors. David smiled and pointed this out to his CO. The Major nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything.  
  
From their landing zone on the bluff, the team snaked through the Central American terrain. The night was in full swing, and the sound of nocturnal animals was present above the subdued sneak of the SEALs. David pushed away his natural fear of spiders as he crawled and prowled through brush. It was a longer hike than he'd expected, but sure enough there were Allied campfires in the distance.  
  
The silhouettes of several Grizzly tanks lay dormant near the flames. The crews were on standby and were currently eating rations in preparation. The GIs had fortified the position, but most of them were asleep anyway. Major McKinnon got out a whistle and blew it twice. It sounded like some kind of bird. The tanks crews left their meals and began checking their vehicles. Most of the GIs woke up. The whistle was the pre-determined signal, so the GIs wouldn't kill them in fear of the SEALs being someone else.  
  
The officers met in a large tent erected behind most of the fires. The Major already had a plan for the Tesla coils, but the tankers and GIs had different ideas. McKinnon called for David and a few others to go up the back entrance and destroy enough reactors to shut off power. The remaining SEALs, at the front entrance, would follow the tanks into the base. With tesla troopers providing the only power, the tanks would draw the coils' attention until the SEALs could eliminate the troopers. It would be a chicken shoot after that. The plan was sound, but the other men didn't like being cannon fodder for some Navy grunts. They wouldn't agree to anything until their buddies were liberated from a POW camp to the East. They'd free the POWs tonight while they still had dark. The offensive on the base would begin at next sundown.  
  
***  
  
The thud of thick rubber boots echoed down the barrack's halls. Sergei Kolikov was being transferred to the front in 'Oklahoma,' the West had the strangest way with words. He was a Tesla Trooper, a defender of the Motherland, and now he had the opportunity to fry some American fools where it hurt most to them. His helmet was flipped up, his head dwarfed by the combat suit he was wearing. The Tesla gauntlet on his right arm was deactivated, and his rucksack and duffel bags were slung across his shoulders. It was early. And very warm, Sergei thought as he opened the door outside. There was a Flak Track waiting for him. He hurried in and hoped the vehicle had air conditioning; this climate could drive any Russian to madness, especially one in a rubber suit!  
  
A husky was sitting in the cargo compartment, his tongue hanging out as his ears were scratched by a conscript sitting nearby. It had been a while since Sergei had seen his own husky, and he considered go over as well but did not want to trouble himself with removing his gloves. Two other conscripts were sleeping in the transport, one with a Flak launcher resting in his lap. Sergei flipped his helmet down and also fell asleep.  
  
It didn't last long. An explosion from outside nearly flipped the Flak Track over. The driver strung together a long line of curses as he maneuvered the transport near the jungle encompassing the road. The turret operator cursed also, as he searched in vain for the assailant. An echoing, booming noise thundered through the thin armor. It was an Allied plane. In the dead of night this was difficult, Allied tanks and soldiers had 'infra-red,' 'night vision,' and other such technologies the Soviets did not. Finally, the gunner found the exhaust light from the fighter and began to fire. Sergei did not like trusting his life to an unknown gunner and a surely-unreligious driver. There was nothing else to be done, so Sergei simply buckled down and braced himself. The roaring noise returned this time accompanied by pings and pangs as shells hit the hull of the vehicle. A round struck a sleeping conscript's leg, he woke up and began to convulse in pain. The blood sent the husky into a craze, the soldier stroking him earlier desperately attempted to keep the animal at bay.  
  
The jet seemed to get closer and closer each time it passed, but never fired a shot. The radio in the driver's compartment once burst out the word 'assholes.' Sergei didn't know the exact translation, except that it was a derogatory term. Allied dogs! The undignified tesla trooper shook on the gunner's leg.  
  
"Make his death extra painful! He's taunting us!"  
  
"Don't you think I know, Comrade? I must deal with flyboys all the time; this one is excessively arrogant, and very stupid. But I will comply with your request. He'll die slowly."  
  
The gunner pressed the trigger a few final times before an explosion could be heard in the sky. The plane didn't again cross the Flak Track's path.  
  
"Let us go see where he has landed," the gunner insisted.  
  
"No," the driver replied, "Allies guard their pilots and planes as one protects his manhood. It is surely suicide."  
  
"The Allies protect everyone with that fervor. Besides, Allied avionics are very valuable to the KGB at present. We could be commended."  
  
The driver hesitated, "Very well. Get the men ready for anything."  
  
The half-tracked vehicle drove down a swathe cut through the jungle by the plane as it landed. As they approached its smoking hulk, the men were ordered out. The wounded conscript could stay, but must be ready to fight nonetheless.  
  
Segei powered up his gauntlet. It hummed to life and served as a small light in the darkness. A conscript ran ahead to the plane's wreck. Obviously, he mattered more for medals than his own safety. He lunged nearly headlong and began to scrounge around for parts. A flash. The twilight shadows receded for a split second as a nearby tree let forth a burst of flame. The conscript ignited without warning or pretense. The other conscript, with the flak cannon, dropped his weapon and ran for the transport calling for his mother. The other writhed in torment before succumbing to the flames.  
  
"Allied trickery!" Kolikov muttered to himself. He ran for the wreckage and hid himself in it, praying that Allied technology could not see through the twisted metal.  
  
The halftrack quickly took off, and the trees let down their disguises to give chase. Once he could be sure all of them were gone, Sergei paced over to the cockpit. The pilot was sitting lifelessly in his restraints, as if dead. The Russian trooper shattered the cockpit glass, he wasn't taking any chances with the pilot.  
  
Captain Nolen woke up. He felt like shit. As he could recall, he probably shouldn't have called those Soviet bastards assholes. He flipped up his visor and the first thing he saw was a tesla trooper charging his gloves. The trooper acknowledged his consciousness by hissing something, Nolen translated it to be 'You!' He raised his glove at the airman, it buzzed as blue sparks criss-crossed his forearm. Nolen held his breath. 


	2. Things get Difficult

David fidgeted with his detonator. It had been a while, and he was out of practice. His thumb was itchy now, and it was the Major's fault. The POWs could wait. David wanted to blow shit up. Regardless of his digits, the lieutenant led some GIs to the POW camp. The GIs surrounded the complex and fortified their positions in the tropical canopy. A lone SEAL approached the front gate and stated in rudimentary Russian,  
  
"You are surrounded. Hand over your prisoners or we will resort to military force."  
  
"Americans can't fight an honest fight, show your men!"  
  
They always wanted the hard way. David sighed and pushed his detonator. 40lbs of C4 exploded behind the camp. The Russian in charge shuddered. SEALs were here. He'd heard horror stories about them; they could play games with Spetznaz soldiers. He capitulated and shouted out the window. "You can have your prisoners; they're in the last two tents. I think you've already opened the back gate."  
  
"Liar," David shouted, "We have rock solid evidence that you have over 40 men here. Two ten-men tents can't hold that. You had your chance."  
  
The SEAL signaled, and the GIs opened fire on the small guardhouse. The sheer volume of rounds pumped into the small wooden building assured 100% casualties. The captives were liberated, all of them. Hushed cheers coursed through the camp. Unfortunately there was no time to party and no rest for the weary. Light was coming, and Lieutenant Hyrin urged them onward.  
  
The crossing back to main camp was harder. There were a lot of weakened soldiers, many of whom had to be carried back. David once felt something crawl across his neck and was embarrassed to ask a GI to check for spiders, but he couldn't think easy until he knew. His arachnophobia was a demon he had never faced off with, and he hoped to God that every deployment he made was free of Soviet Terror Drones. Their uncanny likeness to his devils made him an endangerment to his squad in that kind of situation. SEALs aren't supposed to be afraid of anything, and they certainly don't ask grunts for a bug-check.  
  
Once they had gotten to camp, the undermanned medical crews got to work on the former prisoners. It had to be done quickly, tanks and tents needed to be laid with camo-netting and campfires needed to be buried. Soviet reconnaissance aircraft went out at dawn. Once the medical checks were completed, everyone hustled to string out the nets. Every tank, every inch of canvas needed to be fully covered or there was risk of detection.  
  
The nets were up. Dirt had covered all the campfires. The men had to stay in their tents unless called for. With impeccable timing, two Soviet spy planes flew over their position at the crack of dawn. They took hundreds of photos of the nearby jungle. Developed on the plane, they would be analyzed by professionals in the regional command center as soon as the aircraft returned. Hopefully a grunt hadn't left his coffee pot by the fire, David had heard of miracles worked by those analysts on pictures. If any of the camp, even one trace, remained, they'd be found. Central America was where most of the Russian troops were unloaded. They'd have no problems finding reinforcements, and the Commies wouldn't rest until the American camp was trampled.  
  
***  
  
Nolen braced himself and thought of his wife. He heard the familiar zap of a charging tesla weapon, the heat of its proximity. The whining current buzzed louder and louder before it abruptly stopped at its peak. The Russian soldier checked his weapon for jams while cursing in his native tongue. Nolen was a pilot and those quick reflexes happened to help him here. He grabbed his .45 from its holster and, just like the old gunslingers, pointed it at the Commie's head. A tesla trooper's visor slit is small, but Nolen couldn't miss at this range.  
  
Kolikov quickly cleared the dirt from his gauntlet and raised it back up to the pilot. He was surprised to see a pistol in his face. Very surprised, and very startled. For a minute he lost track of what he was doing and why he was doing it. A quick refocus reminded him and he re-powered his weapon. The American spoke in attempted Russian, substituting words he did not know for the English ones.  
  
"Drop the glove."  
  
Kolikov didn't have much choice. He unfastened his gauntlet and it dropped to the floor.  
  
What the fool did next either was a result of his stupidity or his trust in strangers. He holstered his gun. Sergei Kolikov surged into action at that moment. He tackled the other man right in the torso, pinning his body against the flight seat behind him. The pilot had much more strength than what showed. The American's hands began to beat down on Sergei's back, each one hitting as heavy as a stone. Soon the Russian's grip and strength faltered and he and Nolen tumbled out of the cockpit. They grappled for minutes, seemingly hours to the combatants. They also made an ungodly amount of noise.  
  
The noise was loud enough to transfer into the gunner's seat of the plane. It was now Lieutenant Campbell's turn to rise from his sleep. He heard a god-awful commotion from outside. His canopy was covered in dirt, the pushed the button to raise it and a most peculiar sight awaited him. There were two men, one of whom he saw to be his pilot, Jack, and a Commie tesla trooper. The both of them were rolling around on the ground, going for each other's throats and cursing in whatever language befit them.  
  
Campbell took out his handgun and after cocking it pointed it at the two men. To the Russian in particular he said, "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
At first, Kolikov was terrified. There were two of the scoundrels; just one was giving him a hard time! The two Americans had bound the trooper, and at first Sergei believed they would execute him. They simply told him to stay put. The one he had been wrestling with, 'Jack,' surprisingly was the kindlier one. The other was of lower rank, younger, and much more of a firebrand. He was Kyle. It confused him greatly that they would disclose their names so easily and that Allied uniforms had the nametag right there on the jacket. Sergei kept quiet about his personal life, spoke little, but took offers of rations from Jack. Kyle muttered that a captain shouldn't feed the animals and kept his pistol in his hand, loaded. The Russian was also amazed at the rations the Allied soldiers had. Such small pouches contained food of many varieties that was almost delicious. The Red Army had field rations, but they were canned and tasted rancid. Mostly, Soviet troops were fed in field kitchens that served better food than these pouches, but it was inconvenient to have to leave battle to answer a hunger-call!  
  
It astounded Sergei that the Allies could be so kind to their prisoners. Soviet POWs were treated like animals, being underfed in horrible living conditions. They were often beaten. If there were female soldiers captured (another thing that greatly confused Kolikov, Russian military women were clerks or secretaries, not pilots and troopers!), the officers might do a little more that beat them. Jack seemed to see Sergei's bewilderment.  
  
"You're lucky it's us," he stated.  
  
Sergei snapped from his trance, "I do not understand."  
  
"Most others of us would have killed you a long time ago. I'm fairly sure Kyle here would have already done so if it weren't for me."  
  
Sergei didn't doubt it. His short exchanges with the other man were riddled with insults. It looked as though Kyle might explode. He was still young and had the fire in his heart. Jack was older, and could see the greater purpose behind things.  
  
Kyle was too preoccupied to care about killing the commie he had prisoner. He had lit several flares and was now scanning through every radio channel and issuing the same S.O.S. It was a good cause, but he should have known better. Radio frequencies are universal things. 8.5 on an American radio is 8.5 on a Soviet radio. Kyle had succeeded in getting an Allied infantry battalion to come pick him up, but he also managed to get several Red tank battalions as well. 


	3. Lines in the Sand

Major Silsbee was relieved. He had gotten a transmission from a harrier pilot, callsign Gator27. They had crashed, had prisoners, and needed pickup. Silsbee's 'Battalion' wasn't very large. It had taken a major beating recently. There were 150 GIs and about 35 rocketeers under his direct command. But he was a good CO. He'd find a way.  
  
"Jenkins! Get HQ, on the double! We got downed flyboys and we need some Legionares!"  
  
***  
  
Colonel Verinov was listening intently to a radio broadcast. It was an American pilot requesting rescue. There were two pilots, holding a soldier of the Motherland hostage.  
  
"Foolish boy," Verinov chuckled as he triangulated the source of the transmission. "You will pay dearly for your insolence."  
  
In unison, a battalion of tank treads pivoted due east and began to race.  
  
***  
  
David wasn't pushing his luck any further. They had evaded the Soviet surveillance aircraft, but now they had to wait out the day until dusk. When you're camped less than 500 yards from an enemy base, 'hold position' is not quite the expected order. The men were restless. David's wonderings on his assignments to this mission still confused him. A normal battalion could handle this. Why all the secrecy? Why in hell the SEALs? Thankfully, the squad was all in one tent so he didn't have to leave.  
  
"Hey, Major, why are we here?" David couldn't speculate any longer. He had to know.  
  
"Say what, Lieutenant?" the Major retorted.  
  
"This seems like a standard op. Why are we here?"  
  
"What would you say if I told you that Soviets were trying to mimic our prism technology?"  
  
"I'd say those fuckers kill enough of us with their tesla crap!" David tried to relate that with the topic. It didn't fit.  
  
"Satellite pictures show experimental Soviet structures at this site. They bear remarkable resemblance to Prism Towers. They might have improved up our technology. Once we are in, they must be captured and analyzed before they are destroyed. This is why SEALs are here. No other Allied fighter in this theater has our versatility."  
  
Oh. That hit hard. It's always a pain when you don't just blow stuff up.  
  
"So what now, sir?" David finally replied.  
  
"We wait, son, we wait."  
  
***  
  
David had officially decided, after several hours, that waiting sucks. Fortunately, it was over, and everyone was getting on their gear. The GIs and Grizzly crews were solemn, they knew there only purpose here was cannon fodder. The Major had recently briefed them as well. Most of the men knew firsthand what tesla-fried trooper looks (and smells) like. The Commies didn't need to go stealing our tech.  
  
The march was somber. There was every reason for it to be so. Lieutenant Hyrin would be in the main attack force. The Major and a few other SEALs would disable the power from the rear. Then the tanks would storm the front, David would eliminate the auxiliary power sources (tesla troops), which would leave the base crippled. GIs would secure the area and engineers would be dropped in to examine the Commie Prism buildings.  
  
That was the plan, and hopefully it would work. David and the Grizzlies saw the shimmering blue tesla towers at exactly 10:15. At 10:16, base power was off. 


	4. Fight it Out

A lazy tesla trooper woke up, not from a loud noise, but from the absence of it. He looked aside and noticed the tesla coil was inoperative. He sighed and turned on his gauntlet, raising it to the metal so that the energy would arc across. A faint yellow glow filled the coil instead of its normal vibrant blue. It wasn't as powerful, but it worked. The soldier put a desk under his arm as support and dozed off again.  
  
Once the power was out, the Grizzly tanks surged into action. David jumped on the back of one so as not to be left behind. The pair of coils at the entrance greeted them. A bolt hit a tank and severely damaged it. The second bolt hit the same tank and destroyed it. David was in range. He leaped from his tank and immediately shot the tesla troopers charging the towers. Their hands fell away from the structures, which prevented any current from flowing through them. The coils were out, and now it was just a matter of time before the base fell, or at least, in the American soldiers' minds.  
  
Boris Garigan, future Hero of the Soviet Union, awoke in his bunk. The alarm was on, the base was under attack. He grabbed his uniform, boots, and Flak Cannon before rushing upstairs into hell.  
  
What greeted him was not a pretty sight. The scoundrels had broken the lines and were running amok through the base. Fallen comrades were stacked in piles along the walls of buildings, or strewn out individually on the lawns. Boris barely had the time to breathe before a Grizzly tank stormed by. Without thinking, he leaped up on a pile of bodies and then onto the side of the tank. He then jumped on the turret, clubbed the commander in the back of the head and opened the hatch to the main compartment. Boris lowered his Flak launcher into it and fired. The spread of steel fragments surely killed everyone there. Then he pulled out a bottle of vodka, ripped his shirt and stuck the cloth in, lit it, and hurled it into the tank. As he jumped off and rolled away, the cocktail hit the ammo stores and the Grizzly went up in flames.  
  
While catching his breath, Boris heard a sound he hoped never to hear again. It was the silenced cough of an MP5, the gun of choice for American commandos. Using his best judgment, he ran inside the war factory to head the SEAL off.  
  
"This is the Southwest theater headquarters complex. We're in a bad way so this had better be important, soldier!"  
  
"Yes, sir!" Private Jenkins began. "This is PFC Jenkins, A. The radio operator for the 25th mechanized. We've received an SOS from a downed pilot and we'll need Chrono Legionnaire support."  
  
"Give us your coordinates, Jenkins."  
  
"Bearing 23° by 105°, but the battalion's spread pretty thin."  
  
"Upload that SOS origin, soldier."  
  
"Sir, yes sir!" Jenkins stated as he set up the data link.  
  
"Hmm. Those pilots aren't too bright. They've got a Soviet tank battalion heading to the same point. We can't risk losing those Legionnaires."  
  
Major Silsbee took up the radio on the other side. "With all due respect, sir, with Commie tanks we'll need those troops more than ever."  
  
"Negative, Major. One Legionnaire's helmet has more money to it than a year's salary for you. If this were a bit more momentous than a rescue op, you might get the help. I'll see what I can do, but you're not getting any time-jockeys today."  
  
"Yes, sir," Silsbee grumbled. He had doubts before. Now he was positive the men were digging their own graves, with him as their slave driver.  
  
Silsbee took care of some minor casualty reports, waiting anxiously for his recon teams to return. He had finished listing his KIA's when the radio buzzed.  
  
"Major?" a voice called, it was a Rocketeer.  
  
"Report, Corporal."  
  
"This battalion's gonna be a big threat, sir. They look green; none of the tanks have any kill insignia or medals on them. Even the commander's tank is pretty bare."  
  
"So they're inexperienced?" Silsbee questioned.  
  
"Yes, sir, but it looks like they're carrying a squad of everything. Several Rhino groups, lots of halftracks, and even a squad of Apocalypse tanks."  
  
Those last words hit like a hammer. Apocalypse tanks lead the charge on San Francisco. They lead the charge on everything. They were the first to land on beaches, and they held the lines. The big, double-barreled tanks were a match for Silsbee's battalion by themselves. It wasn't in the Major to turn tail and run, so either this would be a glorious victory, a horrible defeat, or the 25th Mechanized's Alamo. Silsbee made sure all his IFV's were ready to go and got on the com link. "All groups, increase speed by 45 mph and prep for combat." 


End file.
